


you taste better when I can't see you

by Anonymous



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bottom Arthur, Bottom Arthur Shelby, Bottom Tommy Shelby, Bottoming from the Top, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fight Sex, Forced Orgasm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, One Shot Collection, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Religious Guilt, Role Reversal, Sexual Fantasy, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Incest, Tommy is a fucking asshole and I hate him, Topping from the Bottom, Wet Dream, i'm going through the five stages of grief watching this show like god damn, if you count "sucking cock" as bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24327364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tommy knows it's wrong. He just doesn't know how to stop.
Relationships: Arthur Shelby/Tommy Shelby
Comments: 32
Kudos: 43
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

Tommy knows he shouldn’t be here.

Not in Arthur’s room. Not standing over his bed.

Not gently rocking in and out of him while he’s passed out drunk, from alcohol he so helpfully supplied.

But Tommy wants too much, loves too much—

And all truth be told, he’s too much of a bastard to know how to stop.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright?”

Tommy asks, like it’s not the hardest thing in the world.

“Yeah’. You?”

Arthur won’t even look up from his morning paper. Tommy doesn’t know if it’s a blessing, or a curse.

Only knows that the guilt always make him swear he’ll never do it again, only for the alcohol to make him a liar.

 _Not a liar_ , he corrects.

_“A bit o’ stiff drink only makes you an honest man.”_

That’s what Arthur always said.

“Good,” Tommy says through gritted teeth. “Good.”

Once more, so he can actually believe it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so that table scene in episode five fukken destroyed me and made me want to rewrite it, a little bit

“You should’ve come to me,” Tommy whispers, raking his fingers over the fresh lacerations on Arthur’s neck. “If you wanted to _die_ so badly—” He halts for a second, like the word gives him reason to pause. Almost like he can’t bear to have the word on his tongue, or the thought in his mind. “Then you should’ve come to me. I’d have killed you myself.”

A moment of silence passes, before the hardened lines on Arthur’s face settle into a gentle scowl. In his eyes, Tommy can see something he wishes he couldn’t. Only after staring hard enough to burn holes into the wood of the table, does Arthur dare to open his mouth.

“…Are you makin’ fun o’ me?”

“Wouldn't dream of it, my dear brother,” Tommy chirps, holding a note he must’ve practiced about a thousand times in the mirror by now.

He finally produces and slaps the freshly printed business card down on the table, heart racing in excitement.

_Maybe, this’ll be enough._

_Maybe, this’ll make Arthur want to live again._

Oh, Tommy hides it well, but inside the confines of his pockets—his hands are shaking.

It’s a sure bet, he thinks, he’s certain of it—Except, what if it’s not? What if it’s _not_ good enough—

But then Tommy clocks the way Arthur’s smiling at him, and suddenly, none of it matters anymore.

_Maybe, they’ll be okay._

Seizing the mood, Tommy knows he’s yet to seal the deal. “Shelby Brothers Limited,” he declares with no small amount of pride, tactically moving his chair closer to Arthur’s. “We're going up in the world, brother.”

Arthur looks at him like he doesn’t believe it—It’s only when Tommy grasps his hand, and cups his face that it starts to sink in—only then, can Arthur begin to believe it’s all real. Tommy is here, ready and willing to deliver on the false promises his own father could not.

Tommy _is_ here, he thinks, and the thought brings him no small amount of comfort.

“Like I said, you should’ve just come to me,” Tommy grins. “Me and John, we quite fancy having your share.”

And despite the horror of last night, despite the possessive hand resting on his thigh,

Arthur laughs, really laughs, for what feels like the first time in forever.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some context for the events of chapter 1

“tommy, tommy, tommy…”

he says his name like a chant, like a prayer. what little words ripped from arthur’s lips are interrupted only by the sounds, and the moans leaking out of the both of them.

he finally has arthur right where he’s always wanted him - planted firmly on top of him, body heavy, hips stuttering from the force of it all. He gasps, tears up a little more every time tommy thrusts up into him - that’s him, that’s his arthur.

and all truth be told, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

* *

tommy doesn’t quite remember what he’s dreamed about by the time he’s awake, but going by the residual sweat on his forehead and the glaringly familiar stains on his bedsheets, he can take a good fucking guess.

right.

he supposed another midnight visit to his brother’s room was in order.


	5. why are we going in reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so i watched *that* russian scene and had to blow off some steam by knocking tommy about for a bit  
> if anyone in this show deserves to choke on arthur's canonically big dick, it is definitely you, my friend

Maybe, it was the way he'd said something that had set him off. Maybe he'd happened to look at him, in the wrong sort of way. Tommy couldn't tell you _why_ it was happening, only that unfortunately, it was.

Arthur Shelby—all hopped up on coke, addled by alcohol, and god knows what else—rapidly advancing on his arse faster than Tommy could hope to get away. _Not exactly the kind of position you wanted to be in, see?_

Not unarmed, at least.

Tommy, for all his smarts and quick wit, was, at this very moment, wholly unprepared for the fight ahead. Arthur seemed to know it, too. His eyes gave it away. They always did, with him.

He was an honest man. A good man, as he always liked to say.

If anything ever changed, it was only because Tommy had brought out the worst in him.

He had something of a knack for that. A nasty little souvenir he'd brought back from France, even though it hadn't quite fit in his hand luggage.

And yet—

It was still him, wasn't it? Sunken-in, tired eyes and drugged up features aside, this was still his Arthur, wasn't it?

“I’m not your fucking lap dog, alright?!” He spat, and Tommy could smell the alcohol still fresh on his breath.

_Oh, yes. He very much was._

This was _his_ Arthur, grabbing him by the collar, lifting him up, and _slamming_ his back against the hardwood counter top. Arthur pressed on, closing in until they were facing each other, chest to chest. Man to man. No means of escape.

Tommy couldn’t help it. He shuddered at the thought.

“Look at that,” Arthur breathed in disbelief. “Tommy Almighty, shaking in his boots? Whatssa’ matter?” He was slurring, now. “Too afraid to take me, one on one?”

“Yes, actually,” Tommy quipped, hands silently shaking. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. But, I’m even more afraid you’ll start something here tonight that you won’t be able to finish.”

Confusion flashed across Arthur’s face. He continued. “Isn’t that right, Arthur? You know, it’s funny. For someone whose, in your own words, not a dog—you sure do know how to bloody bark like one.”

If Arthur’s weathered, shaking fists were still good for anything, it was knocking the slimy, smug little smile off of Tommy’s face, along with what he hoped were a few teeth. He spat, harshly, blood staining the Garrison floor.

“Do it again,” He croaked, ignoring how pathetic it made him sound. Arthur’s face paled, but he complied. Worn, bloody fists reigned down at his own request, and of course, of course Arthur was kind enough to indulge him.

He was a good man, after all.


	6. Lay Me Down to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A direct sequel to chapter 5: In which Tommy gets exactly what he asked for. Just not in the way he wanted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I lay me down to sleep,  
> I pray the Lord my Soul to keep;  
> If I should die before I 'wake,  
> I pray the Lord my Soul to take.

“Look at ya’. Go on, have a nice look around. You gave me this pub, Tommy. And now, I’m gonna give it ta’ you.”

Tommy had to hand it to the God he knew wasn’t answering his calls, He did have a sick sense of humour. Who knew he’d be ending tonight bent over a table in the Garrison, held down by none other than his own flesh and blood. Sure, he’d gone and riled him up a _bit_ , but he never thought Arthur would take it _this_ far.

“A-Arthur, come on. Let’s calm down—”

“Fuck off,” He interjected, filling in the lack of brotherly communication with a short, sharp tug to his hair. “You’re in my pub, so you’re _my_ property now, Tommy boy. And I can do with ya’ what I bloody well feel like.”

“You’ve already broken my fucking nose, alright!”

“Yeah’,” Arthur muttered, his grip gradually loosening. “Shoulda’ broken the rest of you, too.” He stayed quiet for a moment, and somehow, that made it worse. “Sometimes, I think I should have fucking died down in that tunnel. But not you, Tommy. I never thought that about you.” Arthur’s voice was choked, and for once, a Shelby had no trouble keeping their mouth shut. “I always knew you were different. Special. Ever since you were a baby. So why are we like this, Tommy?”

Whether he was conscious of it or not, Arthur rut against him, as if doing so would bring him any closer to an answer. Annoyed at the lack of response, on top of everything else that had gone wrong tonight, he slammed Tommy’s head into the table below, ignoring the yelp it ripped from him as he did so.

He’d heard worse.

They both had.

“Well? Go on then. Give us an answer’, Tommy Almighty.” Yeah, he was sure it’d be a lot easier without him crushing Tommy’s face into the table, careful to avoid pressing down on that supposedly broken nose of his, but he didn’t feel like being nice.

Not tonight.

“I don’t know! Fuck if I know, Arthur!” Tommy gasped, like he was in pain. Like he wasn’t enjoying every sick second of this. Luckily, Arthur knew better.

“Fuck, ey’? Not a bad idea, if I do say so myself, Tom boy. Been a few years, hasn’t it? Since you last snuck into my room. I’m not fucking _thick_.” Tommy _really_ yelled then, only he could tell, when he thrust forward and ripped his head back at the same time. The snap of his neck was loud enough to make him think something else had broken. At this point, Arthur had to wonder what difference it would make, even if he did. “I used to think you were so special, Tommy. Now I know…I know what you are. You’re special alright, in all the wrong bloody ways.”

But his words were only lost on Thomas Shelby, who was simply slumped over a dirty Garrison table, trying and swearing to all the Gods he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t cry.

Arthur, however, seemed intent on proving him wrong. “Now, I’m gonna do something, Tommy. Something you might not like. But it’s fer’ your own good. And may God have mercy on your soul, if you do.”

It didn’t hurt too much, at first.

That’s the scary part.

It was only because he hadn’t come anywhere _near_ close to forcing the rest of it in, yet.

If Arthur hadn’t been the one causing it, his ears would’ve gone pink with the absolute profanities he was making Tommy scream—things filthy enough to make their dearly departed mother cry. Then again, if she saw what was going on right now, Arthur reckoned she’d be crying, anyway. For his own good, he reminded himself. This was all for his own bloody good.

Tommy had never thought of himself as weak. Either because he wouldn’t allow himself to, or circumstance would _prove_ to him that he wasn’t. He’d survived a war, survived bullets making their home in his body, and he’d survive this too.

Only, every inch felt like fucking torture. The burn, the stretch, the pain, Arthur’s stupidly strong hands holding him down—forgive him, if it wasn’t all just a bit too much. “Arthur…Arthur, please…s-slow down,” he wheezed, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. It was the only way he could stand it.

But Arthur only shushed him, whispering something he couldn’t make out the meaning of. If anything, his grip only _tightened_ —and suddenly, he felt trapped. He couldn’t feel trapped. Not again. Not now. Not ever.

Only, in wildly thrashing around, trying to escape it—well, he’d only ended up rocking back into Arthur instead, who, from the sounds of it—clearly hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Fucking hell, Tommy…!” Arthur spluttered in surprise, and somehow, the sound helped bring him back to reality.

Without meaning to, they’d ended up falling into a steady rhythm, and even the pain was steadily fading away.

Pleasure bloomed in its place.

For Tommy, it was all he needed to let go. To start fucking his brother in earnest, the moans of some wanton whore falling from his lips, reverberating around the wonderfully empty room. Here, where John had his wedding night. Here, where Grace used to pour drinks. Here, where Tommy had shamelessly asked his own brother to beat the sadness out of him.

He was getting it fucked out of him, now. Whatever Arthur had been trying to accomplish, he’d seemingly given up on, in favour of rutting against him like a wild animal. At any rate, that suited him just fine. The whole room seemed to agree.

Maybe it was just because the pain had finally disappeared, but Tommy’s head felt so light.

So carefree.

Like he could do, or say anything. “I love you, Arthur. I fucking love you—”

Oh. He hadn’t meant to say it. Not out loud, at least. Now there was no going back. He wondered if Arthur could even hear him, over the noise of his own moans and the distinctive slapping of skin against sweaty, desperate flesh.

“Fuck, Tommy, don’t, _please_ , don’t,” He whined, almost incoherent.

But Tommy was in no mood to listen.

“I said I fucking _love_ you, Arthur. And everything I do, I do for you—!”

Maybe it was nothing more than a coincidence, but it was the sheer _command_ in Tommy’s voice that’d helped push him over the edge, and before Arthur could so much as finish making his peace, he was finishing inside of his brother. It was warm, yet disgusting, somehow familiar, and every bit as sickening as it was overwhelming. He’d done it, now. He’d really gone and come inside of his baby brother. He’d made sloppy seconds out of Thomas fucking Shelby.

And what’s worse, is he’d fucking _enjoyed_ it. Taking him down a peg.

“Fuck me, Arthur,” Tommy laughed. He wasn't sure if it was the poor turn of phrase, or the adrenaline finally kicking in. “I didn’t know you had it in ya’.”

“Yeah,” Arthur swallowed. “Neither did I, Tommy. I swear. Neither did I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Arthur mistakenly thought by going in dry, he could cause him enough pain/discomfort to fuck the gay out of him, essentially saving his soul and putting an end to their fucked up relationship once and for all. What he failed to realize, is just how much of a far gone brother fucker Tommy "watch my brother get sexually assaulted with a smile on my face" Shelby is.


	7. he’s always drowning, in those old-world blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tommy takes the time to comfort Arthur. Just not in the way he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so this is intended as a retelling of the scene in s2/ep2 where Tommy visits Arthur one on one bc that pissed me off so much I had to rewrite the whole damn thing. It's like an AU where Tommy actually gives half a fuck about Arthur's thoughts/feelings. incredibly ooc, I know.

“I’m surprised you’ve got time for the likes o’ me,” Arthur snarled, taking up a defensive position in his chair. Hair strewn about, eyes cloudy, all hunched over like that—Tommy couldn’t help but think he looked much like a big, angry cat.

“Oh, come on,” Tommy smiled, trying to keep the mood nice and light. “I’ve always got time for my favourite Shelby.” He scowled more, at that. Like he didn’t believe it one bit. Well, given his spotty track record lately, Tommy couldn’t blame him for not taking it seriously. “Alright, alright,” He put his hands up in defeat. “You’re my favourite pain in the arse.”

“Get to the point,” He snapped, fiddling with his drink. _Typical Arthur_ , Tommy thought lightly. Always trying to avoid responsibility, but all too happy to dump it all on his younger brother’s doorstep.

“You keep making _trouble_ , Arthur. And _not_ the good kind. I won’t lie to you—You’ve done an awful thing today. An awful fucking thing. They say the kid had a weak heart, sure, and of course, we’ll take care of his Mother—But that won’t bring the little tyke back, will it?”

If Arthur looked like he wanted to cry before, he looked like he wanted to sob, now. Careful, careful. He couldn’t push him too hard, now. First came the carrot, and then the stick.

“But it’s not your fault, Arthur. It’s not your fucking fault—It’s the war. It’s the war that’s done this to you, it has. But I need you to do something for me, Arthur. Something very, very important—I need you to let go. Like I did.”

But Arthur only looked at him blankly, visibly confused. Blinking back tears.

“The war,” Tommy repeated, exasperation growing. “I need you to let it go.”

“But it’s my head, Tommy. It feels like a fucking barge—I can _feel_ it slipping, from side ta’ side—and I can’t fucking _stop_ it.” The words pouring out of Arthur didn’t seem real, to Tommy. He watched him, watched his body lightly shaking as Arthur sat, holding that supposedly condemned head of his in his trembling hands. “Now hurry up’ and take this fucking thing _away_ from me.”

Tommy blinked, trying to hide his surprise behind steely eyes at the loaded gun thrown down in front of him. _Again. He was trying to run away from him, again._

“…You can’t keep on like this forever, Arthur. First the rope, now the gun. What’s next? Are you gonna go running back to France? ‘Cause if you were that desperate to die, you could have done it out there. But you didn’t—You _survived_. So why don’t you pack all this other shit in, and learn to let _go_ already. Like _me_.”

“Like _you_?” Arthur replied, incredulous. Like he couldn't believe his own fucking ears. “Like fucking’ you?!” He soon jumped to life, storming in close, grabbing Tommy by the lapels of his stupidly expensive coat. “Yeah, well’ I’m not bloody you, am I?! I’m not you, and everybody round ‘ere knows it!”

Well, would you look at that. When the cards were down, the resentment came out. Backed up against the wall, there wasn’t much Tommy could do but wait for him to calm down on his own. Easier said than done, considering the hold Arthur had on his clothes. Knuckles turning white, Arthur grunted, his teeth bared, and Tommy had a job reminding himself now was not the time to be feeling any type of way.

That, could come later.

Tommy watched, and he waited. For the clarity to return to his eyes, for his heavy, laboured breaths to slow down, for Arthur to finally realize, he wasn’t going to fight him back. Not tonight.

Arthur, in turn, watched his face carefully—searching for something, some hint of mockery. But there wasn’t so much as a trace of a smile. Seeing his shoulders slump, Arthur took one long, last meaningful look at Tommy before returning to the peace and quiet of his chair.

“I know, you know.”

Tommy started, re-adjusting his newly crumpled clothes as he gently circled back around to face him directly. “I know you’re not me, and I don’t want you to be. You’re Arthur _fucking_ Shelby.”

Arthur smiled weakly at that, even though the tears weren’t yet done drying in his eyes. Must’ve been the voice that had done it.

It was a start.

“That almost sounds like a compliment, comin’ from you,” Arthur muttered. He wasn’t looking at him anymore. Seems he was more interested in the floor. Tommy crouched down, kneeling by his chair. So he could look at him, face to face. So he couldn’t escape.

“Well, that’s ‘cause it bloody well was one. I can’t do this without you, y’know.”

Arthur raised his head, wide-eyed. His interest evidently piqued.

“You wanna know what I was thinking, when I was getting the shit kicked out of me by Sabini’s boys? _I wish Arthur were here_. Honest to God, it’s true. ‘Cause I know if you were there, you wouldn’t have let them lay a hand on me. You’re not a lap dog, Arthur. You’re my peace of mind.”

There wasn’t another sound in the room, save for the crackling of the fire. Here lay two quiet souls, staring, each needing one just as much as the other.

Wordlessly embracing silence, Tommy let his head slump forward, cradling himself inside the warmth of Arthur’s lap. He needed this. Just needed a minute or two to compose himself, again.

He ignored the muffled little gasp Arthur offered up in protest, happy to leave everything unsaid.

Arthur tried, _tried_ to ignore the feeling of Tommy’s ticklish breaths, tried to ignore…how pitiful, and vulnerable, and just how _small_ Tommy looked, sank to the floor with his light, paper-weight head entirely in Arthur’s hands.

And he tried, more than anything, to ignore how _good_ that made him feel.

They sat in increasingly uncomfortable silence, as Arthur desperately fought to think of anything that would keep him from the fact that Tommy’s face was only inches away from his—Never mind, the fact that his hand was _also_ gently resting on his thigh, like it was nothing. As though this were all perfectly innocent, just between brothers.

 _Lord, have Mercy_. Was he really the one jumping to conclusions, now?

“I’ve got a cure, you know, Arthur—For those old-world blues of yours.” Tommy muttered, finally breaking the silence. Arthur willfully ignored the way his hair was standing on end, at the sound of his voice. “Now, I warn ya’, you might not like what I’m about to do. And may God have mercy on your soul, if you do.”

If Arthur knew what was coming, then his body, not his mind, was too slow to stop it. There was no sound in the room louder than the definitive noise of someone’s trousers being undone. Maybe it was simply the alcohol that had made his body more compliant and his mind, more flexible, but Arthur wasn’t resisting him at all. “It’s s’alright, Arthur,” Tommy soothed, as well practiced hands slid into his underwear with alarming ease. “Just go and pretend I’m some pretty, young girl.”

And he did, at first. He tried to pretend it was Grace, just to piss him off. But Arthur soon found he didn’t quite have the heart for it—not when she’d broken his brother’s heart the way she had. He didn’t have the heart to imagine anyone else, not when the sounds, the sense, even the touch of it all, were so distinctly _Tommy_.

Still, Arthur didn’t dare open his eyes—for the hot, molten fear that he’d be enraptured by the sight he saw, if he did. He’d always known Tommy had a way with words, now he knew he had a way with his tongue, instead. It was nothing short of _maddening_. “When’d you learn to suck cock like a top-class whore, Tommy?”

Oh, that’s right. He couldn’t answer. He tried, mind you—until Arthur thrust, and successfully choked his mouth shut. “Ah ah, Tom boy. S’rude, to talk with’ your mouth full.”

He whined, Thomas fucking Shelby actually _whined_ around his cock then, not that he wanted him to. But _fuck_ , if Tommy was gonna’ drag him down to his level anyway, then he might as well enjoy it. That's what he’d be telling the Devil, anyway, when he got to Hell. The warm, wet heat of Tommy's mouth almost, _almost_ made him think he was worth the trouble of the trip down there.

Even with the weight of the ironclad fist on his hair, Tommy wasn’t slowing down. “Christ, you’d think you were born to suck cock,” Arthur laughed, too far gone to care about his using the Lord’s name in vain. “God doesn’t deal with Small Heath—Inn’t’ that right, Tommy?”

He nodded then, he could feel it. That alone, made him want to open his eyes.

And oh, when he did—The sight that greeted him was nothing short of sublime. Tommy fucking Shelby, big man around town, was now the one with tears in his eyes. Arthur couldn’t help feeling at least a _little_ bit proud. He doubted this was a sight anyone outside of this room would ever get to see. Arthur briefly wondered if he'd ever been this hard before, even with other women—He never did manage to get a blowjob off those girls at the cinema, after all. He thought about it for a moment, before a moan slipped out and Arthur decided he didn't very much like the answer.

Tommy was family, so he didn’t find it necessary to give any kind of formal warning, no, a loud grunt and another tug of his hair was all the prior notice Tommy got before Arthur was finishing down his throat, holding him in place as he did so. Well, Tommy had no fucking choice, then—It was swallow, or choke.

When Arthur finally, _finally_ relaxed his grip, the first thing Tommy did was break away from him with a wet pop, leaving a trail of saliva in his wake. With shaky legs, he stood. Scanning the room, it didn’t take him long to find exactly what he was looking for. He grabbed and promptly downed the last of Arthur’s drink, making a point of loudly gargling as he slammed it back down.

“There. I’d say we’re all feeling a little bit better now, aren’t we?”

Arthur only smirked at him as he tucked himself back into his trousers, clearly amused, but thankfully keeping his mouth shut.

“Yeah, I’d fuckin’ well say so. Dunno’ about you, though.” He grinned as he gestured towards him, a smile that seemed to scream _“I win,”_ with childish glee.

Tommy sighed as he looked down and saw the proof of his own, painfully unattended arousal staring back at him, straining against the fabric of his pants. He made sure not to make eye contact as he awkwardly grabbed for his cap, positioning it tactfully as he strode over to the door without so much as a wave goodbye. “Right,” He coughed, hating how pathetic it made him sound. “I’d best be getting on then.”

“Right,” Arthur echoed, not bothering to hide any of the amusement in his voice.

“Oh, and Arthur?” Tommy turned around, cap in hand, wanting to look him in the eye as he said it.

“I never meant what I said, y’know. About the chickens. You can raise ‘em, if you like. I think it might do you some good, Arthur. I really do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wew, I think this was the longest chapter yet. I was originally going to have Arthur be deeply embarrassed/ashamed at finding himself enjoying Tommy's ministrations, but given how poorly he gets treated in canon, I just couldn't do it. Let him win, for once!


	8. If you won’t say it, I will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy knows what he wants. And he knows how to get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Scusi.

“Come on, Arthur,” Tommy whispered, begging, pleading. Encouraging. “Say it. I need you to say it.”

“I can’t—” He choked, the thought of giving in, making him sick. But then again, he was almost more scared of what would happen if he continued to say ‘no’. He’d seen, been shown countless times that Thomas Shelby was not a man you wanted to say no to. Especially, not a second time. Never mind a bloody third. Nobody had ever made it to a fourth. Nobody, except him.

“It’s just a word, hey?” Tommy cooed, soft breath brushing against the shell of Arthur’s ear. He felt the heat, and flushed. “Just a silly, silly little word I need you to say—Then I’ll let you come. I promise.”

Arthur tried, really tried to think of a time Tommy had ever lied or broken his promise. Palms shaking, it dawned on him like a bad dream—he couldn’t think of any. Couldn’t think, not with the way Tommy's hands were teasing him so. _No more reason to say no_ , some gleeful part of him thought, and Arthur hated himself for it.

“Daddy...!” He finally cried, feeling the hot splash of his own seed soiling the front of his trousers, filling him with an even hotter, awful sense of shame. Tommy coaxed him through his climax, whispering filthy words of a job well done, stroking his sweat-soaked hair until he finally calmed down. Until the hushed up little whimpers escaping his mouth and betraying his body became full blown sobs.

“That’s it,” Tommy soothed like he always did, after he’d gotten his own way. “Take it. You’ll fucking take it from me, Arthur. And what’s more is, you’ll like it. You’ll learn to like it, I promise. That right there’s a Shelby guarantee.”

Arthur only nodded, taking great pains not to meet his gaze. Then he cried, cried as hard as he had the night he’d been but a boy, and their father had left them the first time. He leant against Tommy, hoping for some support, or maybe even some comfort.

All he got in return was a familiar sounding groan, instead.

…And yet, somehow, for Arthur—right now, at least—It was enough.


End file.
